


The Ballad of Filius Flitwick and Severus Snape

by Delphi



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Courtship, M/M, Poetry, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-05
Updated: 2010-12-05
Packaged: 2017-10-14 23:00:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/154418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delphi/pseuds/Delphi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A year in the secret courtship of two not-dissimilar Hogwarts professors.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ballad of Filius Flitwick and Severus Snape

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lookfar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lookfar/gifts).



> Written for the 2010 Snapely Holiday exchange on IJ. The book lent out and quoted by Flitwick is _The Ghazaliyat of Hafiz_.

The bubbly flowed on Christmas Eve  
of nineteen-eighty-one,  
the yearly teachers' do awash  
with merriment and fun.

With carols sung and toasts proposed,  
the party stayed its course.  
But shy Professor Flitwick found  
his voice becoming hoarse.

He stood aside and sipped his wine  
and hid a sleepy yawn.  
Of scholar's build, he wasn't made  
for revelling 'til dawn.

Talked-out but gay, he gazed around  
the bright and lively room,  
until he spied their newest hire:  
epitome of gloom.

Complexion pale, young Severus Snape  
was scowling o'er his drink.  
Snape wore his plain black teaching robes,  
his hands still stained with ink.

It was, perhaps, this last detail  
that moved him to approach,  
with hope he would not overstep  
and rightly face reproach.

"Professor Snape—oh, there you are!"  
he cried with practiced cheer.  
The young man frowned suspiciously,  
his trepidation clear.

"Come take a walk?" he loudly asked  
and then, voice low, confessed:  
"If we depart together, we  
should make it out unpressed."

A small, conspiring smile appeared  
upon a narrow lip  
as both of them together out  
an open door did slip.

Outside, they went their separate ways,  
and Filius gave a wink,  
then lingered far too long in thought  
and blamed it on the drink.

~*~

When New Year's came, McGonagall,  
with superstitious glee,  
seized Severus firmly by the arm,  
the year's first-foot to be.

The knock was rather peevish as  
it rang upon the door.  
Then, readmitted, Snape swept in,  
still grumbling at the chore.

Professor Flitwick awkwardly  
attempted not to stare  
at cold-flushed cheeks and coal-black eyes  
and rain-soaked, gothic hair.

The floor was cleared, the wireless tuned;  
the threat of dancing loomed.  
The quickest glance, a nod, a smile—  
conspiracy resumed.

This time to Flitwick's rooms the two  
in haste and stealth did flee.  
"Er, mind the clutter, if you will.  
I'll make us both some tea."

He climbed up on his counter tops  
and finally found the leaves.  
He brewed a pot, and fidgeted,  
and fiddled with his sleeves.

Snape browsed the bookshelves avidly,  
his fingers tracing spines.  
His hands, his stance, his awkward grace—  
oh, Filius knew the signs.

He looked away and cleared his throat,  
attempting 'nonchalant.'  
"I don't mind loans to colleagues, so  
take anything you want."

The fib was swallowed, hook and line,  
and Snape ransacked the lot.  
Professor Flitwick watched his zeal  
and flushed abruptly hot.

Upon the sofa then they sat  
with cups of tea at hand.  
He did not have guests often, but ...  
tonight was awfully grand.

~*~

In February cold and grey,  
acquaintanceship advanced,  
and Flitwick, once so circumspect,  
was nonetheless entranced.

Snape came again to raid his shelves  
and often stayed for tea.  
They spoke of books, the rain, and charms,  
and higher alchemy.

Of academic leanings, he  
was thus inclined to chart  
the maddening minutiae that  
had so engaged his heart.

He opened up a notebook to  
a soft and sallow page.  
His quill was dipped in crimson ink,  
then hovered for an age.

"SS," he finally wrote, and then  
beneath he scribbled more.  
It wasn't long before he'd filled  
a page, then three, then four.

"Black Eyes," he wrote, then "Roman Nose,"  
then "Looking Far Too Lean."  
His brewing skills "Exemplary,"  
his humour "Dark But Keen."

A jot: "Likes Lamb" and then "Hates Mint,"  
as noted after tea.  
"A rapid reader," he observed,  
"but not as fast as me."

They came to chat at dinnertime  
when seated in the Hall.  
And "Lonely?" Flitwick wrote one night  
with pot-and-kettle gall.

Some afternoons together they  
would take their break for lunch,  
and at Snape's careful posture, he  
affirmed his prior hunch.

Professor Flitwick too had been  
an awkward Earnest lad,  
and so it wounded him to write:  
"...he always looks so sad."

~*~

In March, the rain continued and  
young Severus grew more pale,  
his mood, it seemed, made stormier  
with every noisy gale.

In certain light, Snape looked just like  
the student he'd once known:  
hunch-shouldered, harassed, butt of jokes,  
and naught but skin and bone.

He'd done his best to help him then,  
but children could be cruel.  
It had not been by whim alone  
that Filius learned to duel.

When days, then weeks, had passed without  
the borrowing of a book,  
he went down to the dungeon suite  
to take a worried look.

He found Snape sitting in the dark,  
slumped tiredly in a chair.  
Snape looked up slowly, scowling through  
a curtain of his hair.

The smell of burning paper was  
an ugly, acrid scent,  
and strewn about were photographs  
and letters, roughly rent.

He recognised, among the ash,  
a few familiar names.  
A half-burnt headline eulogised  
dear Lily and poor James.

What tragedy, when growing up  
is not in fortune's plan,  
and those kept small must nonetheless  
become the bigger man.

So, "Tsk," was all that Filius said,  
and with a kindly look,  
he made some tea and tidied up,  
then went to fetch a book.

The door was locked when he returned,  
the silence taut and terse.  
So Filius on the doorstep set  
his favourite book of verse.

~*~

A seed of worry blossomed as  
the April days grew long,  
and Filius came to fear that his  
assumption had been wrong.

In corridors, they walked abreast  
with careful, cautious looks.  
No mention, though, was made of fire  
... or inappropriate books.

Until one night there came a knock  
quite late upon the door,  
and Filius opened up to find  
Snape gazing at the floor.

"Come in," he said, "I'll make some tea."  
But as Snape sidled in,  
Professor Flitwick fetched instead  
two healthy tots of gin.

Snape held in hand his copy of  
Hafiz's mystic rhymes.  
That book had been his lifeline in  
some rather darker times.

"I read it," Snape declared, and then  
there was a lengthy pause.  
"You realise merely owning this  
could breach your morals clause."

"It is," he said defensively,  
"a classic Persian work."  
He then observed, upon those lips,  
a rather teasing smirk.

 _His eyes were spoiling for a fight ..._  
his memory sang again,  
 _… his lips were mouthing, 'Oh, alas!'_  
"How did you find it, then?"

Snape sat and drank, and haughtily  
declared it maudlin tosh.  
"The writing wasn't awful, though,  
so not an utter wash."

This moderate answer nonetheless  
made Filius smile and blush.  
And as the night embraced them both,  
quite hopeless was his crush.

~*~

With May came warmth and sunny days  
that lit up all the school,  
and Filius, as he went about,  
was beaming like a fool.

The breeze blew lush and stirred his soul  
and smelled like springtime flowers.  
The birdsong carolled merrily  
between the castle's towers.

And 'twixt it all, his heart beat fast,  
and damp became his palms.  
Long years had passed since last his mind  
had wrestled with such qualms.

Each moment he and Severus passed  
in quiet company  
began to pain him sweetly in  
exquisite agony.

At last he could not bear it, and  
he focused on one aim:  
he had to know, for best or worst,  
if Snape could feel the same.

When next they met, he turned the talk  
towards the end of term,  
and he inquired of Severus if  
his summer plans were firm.

"I often travel," Filius said  
to fill the awkward pause  
when Snape looked 'round and went quite red.  
Oh, how he felt his flaws.

But still he forged on valiantly:  
"I wouldn't dare presume …"  
He'd rented out a house, he said.  
"... and there's an extra room."

He wet his lips and held his breath,  
his chest constricting tight.  
A moment passed, and then one more,  
then Severus said, "All right."

They cleared their throats and shared a look,  
and in a breathless pause,  
how Filius wished to kiss him then ...  
but oh, the morals clause!

~*~

So June crawled by at aching pace  
with no care for his heart.  
He marked his students' final tests  
and urged the break to start.

He finished up his last affairs,  
and made his fond farewells,  
then packed his bags and met with Snape  
amidst the leaving bells.

They portkeyed to a little town  
along the rocky shore.  
The cottage that awaited them  
was built for two—no more.

The feeling in the quiet room  
was close and hot and hushed.  
And when they made to move their trunks,  
their hands just softly brushed.

They both went still for several breaths;  
no sound did either make.  
Then Filius grasped a fine-boned wrist,  
and both began to shake.

They stood there momentarily  
in silent, trembling need.  
Since last he'd touched another man,  
t'was very long indeed.

Then carefully he placed a hand  
upon a narrow hip,  
and slowly, slowly, to a chair  
the two of them did slip.

He stood between Snape's knocking knees,  
unwrapped him like a gift,  
then over pale and goose-fleshed skin  
allowed his hands to drift.

What followed wasn't elegant.  
They grasped and pressed and clung.  
Cool hands that warmed, and eager gasps,  
and salt upon his tongue.

No records would they break that day;  
they finished far too quick.  
But Filius kissed him long and slow,  
oh, never mind the crick.

~*~

How sweet, July, that welcome month,  
the weather clear and hot.  
The sun shone bright and breeze blew soft  
around their cosy spot.

With books and bed-sport ample there,  
they rarely left the house,  
save for some separate strolls to town  
when Snape began to grouse.

When temper cooled, however, Snape  
was lovely company  
and hungry for a tumble as  
a youth his age would be.

They broke in well the big brass bed,  
and christened both the chairs,  
and made accounting for their heights  
with clever use of stairs.

Shenanigans upon the couch,  
and even on the floor,  
and on one quick occasion it  
was up against the door.

They kissed within the garden and  
canoodled by the fire,  
and Filius took his vitamins,  
not wishing yet to tire.

But sensibly and in between  
was lavish time to read.  
For on the pleasures of a book,  
the two of them agreed.

Until, again, Snape looked at him  
with that unseemly thirst,  
and Filius came to speculate  
he might have been his first.

Exhausted but enamoured, he  
could not contain his joy  
at spending such a lovely month  
with this unlikely boy.

He sent off promised notes and cards  
to colleague, friend, and peer,  
and in each one, though he meant well,  
he lied: "Wish you were here."

~*~

In August, thankfully, the days  
grew languid, mild and slow.  
The urgency diminished some,  
but not the sweetness, though.

Each morn they sat together in  
the quiet sitting room,  
with little sound but turn of page  
and gentle scratch of plume.

They went for walks along the shore  
or to the shops in town,  
and talked of science, books, and lore  
until the sun dipped down.

And then, at night, more oft than not,  
they'd go to Flitwick's bed  
to tumble, yes, or merely rest  
their tired eyes instead.

Of course, not all was rosy-hued  
through love's beguiling spell,  
for Snape still had his choler up  
from time to time as well.

"I'm not an invert," Snape announced  
quite apropos of naught.  
"You realise that, at least, I hope,"  
he added, timbre taut.

It was a curious thing to say,  
as Filius well recalled  
his own infatuation with  
a lass in days of auld.

He'd loved her, wooed her, wished to wed,  
but had at last been spurned;  
and did it really matter  
that his passion hadn't burned?

It had, of course, undoubtedly  
worked out the best for all.  
There was a time in every life  
for loves both great and small.

And so, "I know," he said to Snape  
and gently stroked his hair.  
Thus wordlessly, he sat awhile  
and pondered this affair.

~*~

September came, and on its heels,  
a chilly autumn nip.  
The rain returned, both day and night,  
a steady, loathsome drip.

They both, of course, were back at school,  
ensconced once more in work.  
How Filius loved this time of year:  
a Ravenclaw-ish quirk.

To his relief, he hadn't had  
to broach the matter first.  
For on that wretched morals clause,  
they both were keenly versed.

They did not act too intimate;  
they did not dare to touch.  
They barely even spoke in case  
temptation proved too much.

Eventually, they came to chat  
at dinner once again,  
and kept to topics one might hold  
with colleague or with friend.

Yet Filius floundered dreadfully,  
and much to his surprise.  
Historically, his summer flings  
were rather less unwise.

Of course, he was most sensible  
and would not claim defeat.  
To test his mettle, off he set  
towards the dungeon suite.

He brought some cake, and Snape made tea,  
with naught unseemly aired.  
They sat down on the sofa just  
as close as either dared.

So there they sat, and there they ate,  
then side by side, they read.  
And Filius tallied with dismay  
the many months ahead.

But oh, the torture, he endured,  
and Severus did the same,  
together sharing warmth most chaste  
until the morning came.

~*~

The first great bash of autumn term  
occurred at Hallowe'en.  
It marked a year since victory,  
this wild and joyful scene.

He put in a respectable  
appearance at the do.  
He sang and chatted, snacked his fill,  
and joined a game or two.

But true to form, he soon grew tired,  
and found his throat quite sore.  
He could not help but note that Snape  
had not come through the door.

Though knowing better, down he went  
into the dungeon gloom  
and found the young inebriate  
inside his darkened room.

Had he not been so tuckered out,  
he'd not have been so rude.  
"You might as well have come tonight,  
with such a _festive_ mood."

He quickly saw his error, though:  
this was no boyish bout.  
Snape looked up, ill and quivering,  
and snarled at him, " _Get out!_ "

Perhaps he should have, but he stayed  
and tried to contemplate  
just what could put Snape out of sorts  
on such a blessed date.

He did not know what had occurred  
since Snape had first left school.  
To come so young to teacher's trade ...  
well, Filius was no fool.

So: "Hush," he said, "forgive me please,"  
and sat down at his side.  
"You didn't miss much anyhow,"  
he quite politely lied.

Snape's shoulders hunched in tacit guilt,  
apology enough.  
And Filius, grateful for the smooth,  
bore out with him the rough.

~*~

November meant the days grew short  
and winter came to stay.  
Snape's wounded mood continued through  
each dark and chilly day.

Perhaps they should have kept apart,  
but Filius came each night  
and on some dreadful evenings stayed  
until the morning light.

His mien was gently cheerful as  
he brought the cakes and tea.  
He brushed aside the silences  
and lingered patiently.

He kept his manners close to hand  
and never did he touch,  
but in his weaker moments, oh,  
he wanted to so much.

They took their meals privately,  
Snape low on appetite,  
and Filius ever prodded him  
to try another bite.

He read aloud at supper's end  
from novels and from plays.  
A well-writ comedy was best  
for chasing off malaise.

Again he thought of former trysts,  
uncomplicated men  
who went their own way, as did he ...  
but that, it seemed, was then.

For now, he was most sorely tried;  
he'd always been discreet.  
He could not risk his teaching job  
for love, though it be sweet.

"What are you thinking?" Severus asked  
one night before the fire.  
"Oh, nothing," Filius quickly said,  
a most atrocious liar.

Snape looked at him quite pressingly,  
and then a lip did quirk.  
And Filius only once had been  
so pleased to see a smirk.

~*~

The punch was rummed on Christmas Eve  
of nineteen-eighty-two,  
the party budget smaller but  
the crowd a merry crew.

Professor Flitwick grazed the snacks  
and nursed a little cup.  
At half-past ten, predictably,  
his voice was drying up.

He looked around the lively hall,  
neck craned, until he marked  
the face he sought, and in his heart,  
a flare of fondness sparked.

Professor Snape, with nimbleness  
had ditched a round of darts  
and now was trying to escape  
a friendly game of hearts.

Their gazes met across the room,  
then Snape made his excuse  
and slipped away from Irma like  
a man who'd dodged the noose.

They sidled, crafty, to the door  
and out into the hall.  
The din was rather lowered there,  
diminished to a squall.

By mutual assent they made  
their way towards the tower,  
for parting ways did not occur  
despite the later hour.

"Come in for tea?" was what he asked  
while pausing by the door.  
He couldn't blame it on the drink,  
this urge to offer more.

And then young Severus, quietly,  
near knocked him to his knees,  
when he looked down, his eyes athirst,  
and simply murmured: " _Please?_ "

One word was all it took, it seemed;  
his last resolve had died.  
Oh, clause be damned, he took that hand  
and led his love inside.

  



End file.
